


Oil and Water

by Boxstorm



Series: Kink meme Fills [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Hate Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 18:20:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12018393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boxstorm/pseuds/Boxstorm
Summary: Adam blames the adrenaline. The adrenaline and the fact that Jack Fucking Zimmermann had scored around him three fucking times, and shot him that smug fucking smirk as he did it and then Zimmermann’s team had ended up winning the game because of course they had, they have Jack Fucking Zimmermann, and Adam is feeling just this side of his usual baseline grouchy and he can admit, after the fact, that he’s maybe looking for a fight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kinkmeme; 
> 
> "Jack and Holster have a verbal argument, that becomes a physical fight, that gets very weird very quickly. Am a fan of sub!Jack." -anonymous

Adam blames the adrenaline. The adrenaline and the fact that Jack Fucking Zimmermann had scored around him three fucking times, and shot him that smug fucking smirk as he did it and then Zimmermann’s team had ended up winning the game because of course they had, they have _Jack Fucking Zimmermann_ , and Adam is feeling just this side of his usual baseline grouchy and he can admit, after the fact, that he’s maybe looking for a fight.

  
When he runs into Zimmermann waiting for the elevators (and why the fuck does this shitty tiny town only have one hotel?) he can’t help but push a little bit.

  
The fact that Zimmermann pushes back is surprising, but certainly not unwelcome.

  
“You played a good game,” Adam says, conversationally, as the elevator doors open and they step inside, “especially considering you had the ref’s dick in your mouth for most of it.”

  
“Excuse me?” Zimmermann by says, wiping his head around to look at Adam so quickly that Adam swears he hears Zimmermann’s neck crack.

  
“I’m just saying,” Adam says with a casual shrug, “I’d probably score more, too, if I was the Q’s favourite cockslut.”

  
“Who the fuck are you?” Zimmermann asks, and any idea that maybe he’s taking this too far immediately leaves Adam’s head.

  
How dare Zimmermann not remember him? 

  
“Let me jog your memory,” Adam says, all the warning he gives Zimmermann before he solidly checks him into the wall of the elevator. 

  
“What the fuck,” Zimmermann says, and there’s a sickening moment where it looks like he's not going to retaliate, in which case Adam is fucked because you don’t get to just wail on Jack Zimmermann with no consequences. 

  
But then Zimmermann is punching him solidly in the jaw (and _fuck_ can he throw a punch). Adam grins through his newly split lip and it’s on. 

  
By the time the elevator doors open on Adam’s floor, he’s got Zimmermann in a headlock, and he doesn’t plan on letting go.

  
“This isn’t my floor,” Zimmermann spits.

  
“Tough shit,” Adam says, “I’m not done with you yet.”

  
Zimmermann shoves Adam’s arm off of himself, but still follows Adam down the hall of his own volition.

  
“Who says I'm done with you?” Zimmermann asks, leaning against the wall beside Adam’s room while he unlocks the door. 

  
Adam’s roommate is still out at a bar, newly eighteen and reveling in the novelty of being able to drink in Quebec, which is a damn good thing because as soon as they’re both into the room, Zimmermann tackles Adam to the floor. Adam has the wind knocked out of him as Zimmermann slams his shoulder into Adam’s chest.

  
But Adam is still bigger and built specifically for strength and once he gets his bearings, it’s not too difficult to flip them over and press Zimmermann into the carpet underneath him. 

  
He’s got Zimmermann’s arms pinned above his head, wrists crossed and held tight in one of Adam’s large hands. Zimmermann’s hips are held snugly between Adam’s thighs. Adam’s remaining hand is pressed into the carpet beside Zimmermann’s head. They’re both breathing heavily and if it weren’t for the sluggishly bleeding cut above Zimmermann’s eyebrow or the bruise slowly blooming across Adam’s jaw, it might almost seem like an entirely more titillating situation. 

  
Zimmermann bucks his hips, ostensibly to push Adam off, but Adam can’t help the direction his mind goes. 

  
He just hopes Zimmermann doesn’t notice the way his dick twitches in his jeans.

  
“Seriously?” Zimmermann asks, raising an eyebrow and not even flinching as it opens his cut back up, “What you want to fuck me so you figure 'oh, I’ll punch him in the face. That’ll be a nice normal way to ask’.”

  
“Fuck you,” Adam says, hastily rolling off Zimmermann and standing, “You punched me first.”

  
“You’re upset because I punched the stranger who body checked me in an elevator?” Zimmermann asks incredulously, sitting up and letting his arms drop loosely into his lap.

  
“I’m mad that you think I’m a stranger,” Adam says, frowning.

  
It’s more than he wanted to reveal, to be honest, but Zimmermann has those big sad blue eyes and it’s genuinely unfair how he can make a person feel, especially when they don’t want to feel anything.

  
“You’re the fucking goon from the Siskins,” Zimmermann says, “Happy?”

  
“I’m not a fucking goon,” Adam says, deciding he’s played nice for long enough. 

  
He tackles Zimmermann back into the floor.

  
“You literally beat me up in an elevator,” Zimmermann points out, even as Adam shoves Zimmermann’s shoulders back into the carpet, “and you’re certainly not here for your hockey skills. But hey, maybe if you were better at sucking cock…”

  
“I’m plenty good at sucking cock,” Adam says before he thinks it through.

  
It’s not the kind of thing you admit to in hockey, and especially not to someone you’re actually physically fighting. 

  
“Prove it,” Zimmermann says, rolling his hips up into the space between Adam’s thighs again, an edge of challenge to his voice.

  
And, okay, this is fucking weird, right? Fights, in Adam’s admittedly limited experience, do not usually end this way. But it’s also Jack Zimmermann, and as much as Adam hates him in this moment (hates him just a little bit all of the time) he is, objectively, a very attractive man, if you happen to be into men. 

  
And Adam is definitely really, really into men. 

  
“Fine,” Adam says, trying to sound braver in this moment than he actually feels. 

  
He sees a flash of what looks like surprise on Zimmermann's face, before it’s covered with a similar bravado.

  
Adam rolls off of Zimmermann again, but stretches out next to him on the floor for now, long legs reaching towards the door in what he hopes is a provocative manner. 

  
Zimmermann’s eyes trail down the length of his body with a hint of what might be hunger, and Adam allows himself to preen, just a bit. 

  
Zimmermann’s hands find the waistband of his own pants, and Adam can’t help but stare, transfixed, as he slowly pops the button and pulls the zipper down, revealing tight black boxerbriefs. 

  
Adam is breathing more heavily, watching with rapt attention as Zimmermann pulls out the thick, pink head of his cock, tugging it gently and hissing through his teeth. 

  
He’s not fully hard yet, but Adam is, straining against his jeans, and he undoes his own zipper, gasping quietly in relief as the pressure against his dick lessens. 

  
He leaves his in his boxers for now, focusing on Zimmermann as he pulls his dick the rest of the way out, and then makes heated eye contact with Adam.

  
“Well?” Zimmermann asks, the breathiness of his voice undermining the cocky look he’s trying to throw. 

  
“Fuck you,” Adam mutters, more to remind himself that he’s angry than because he’s trying to hurt Zimmermann at this point.

  
“What, you jealous of my dick now, too?” Zimmermann asks, giving said dick another tug as Adam settles himself between Zimmermann’s thighs. 

  
“Sure,” Adam says with a laugh, because that, at least, he isn’t particularly insecure about, “Are we going to keep fighting or am I going to suck you off?”

  
“Both,” Zimmermann says.

  
Adam can work with that. 

  
He swats Zimmermann’s hand away from his dick and replaces it with his own, gripping the base of the shaft the way Zimmermann had been a moment before. 

  
He briefly makes eye contact, and that’s all the warning he gives Zimmermann before sliding his mouth down onto Zimmermann’s cock, taking him in until the tip hits the back of Adam’s throat. 

  
“Shit,” Zimmermann says, and it sounds like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, which is gratifying as hell.

  
Adam makes eye contact again, and smirks as well as he can around a mouthful of cock, before swallowing around Zimmermann, and earning himself another gasped curse.

  
“Fuck,” Zimmermann says, “oh, fuck.”

  
Adam looks up to see Zimmermann with his eyes squeezed shut, hands grasping ineffectively at the short fibres of the carpet. 

  
“You really are a little slut, aren’t you,” Adam says, pulling off slow and wet, unable to hold back on calling Zimmermann out again. 

  
“Says the man with his mouth on my dick,” Zimmermann shoots back, reaching to get a hand on the back of Adam’s head, fingers tangling in Adam’s hair, tugging once, sharply, and pushing him back down. 

  
Adam gasps at the sting, resists for a moment to breathe through it, but he can take a hint and he’s fully committed to giving Zimmermann the best blowjob of his life so he allows himself to be pushed back down onto Zimmermann’s cock.

  
He can hear the sounds he’s pulling out of Zimmermann, desperate little gasps and strangled moans and at one point something that sounds like French, and Adam can’t help but reciprocate, after a few minutes of nothing but focusing on Zimmermann’s dick in his mouth, the salty, musky taste of him and the weight of him on his tongue. 

  
Adam groans softly, pulling back to suck at the tip and run his tongue across the slit, swallowing down the pre-cum that surges out in response. 

  
Adam is desperate for friction, trying to shift to get some contact between his cock and the floor. He’s not too proud in this moment to just hump against the carpet, although a small part of him knows that he doesn’t want to give Zimmermann the satisfaction. 

  
This same small part reminds him that, while he may be sucking Zimmermann’s brain out through his dick, they’re also technically still fighting. 

  
With that in mind, he pulls off and sits up.

  
“So?” He asks, breathing heavy, “What do you think?”

  
It takes Zimmermann nearly thirty seconds to pull himself together enough to respond.

  
“You’re not bad,” Zimmermann concedes, “but I know of better.”

  
“Oh yeah?” Adam asks, “Like who?”

  
And then suddenly he’s on his back, with Zimmermann looming over him, cock still rock hard and hanging out of his jeans, dripping pre-cum onto Adam’s t-shirt, and if that isn't the hottest thing he’s seen outside of a porno, maybe ever…

  
“Like me,” Zimmermann says, reaching into Adam’s boxers to give his dick a surprisingly gentle stroke.

  
Adam plans to respond to that but his brain shuts down as Zimmermann gets his mouth around the head of Adam’s cock and sucks lightly.

  
Zimmermann's mouth is hot and wet and tight and exactly what Adam has been craving for the last twenty minutes. 

  
He lets out a strangled litany of curses in between gasps for air as Zimmermann takes him apart and then utterly fails to put him back together. 

  
He can feel the heat pooling low in his stomach, his hips jerking minutely up into Zimmermann’s mouth, and Zimmermann, somehow, just calmly takes him further in. 

  
It’s simultaneously exquisite and infuriating.

  
His hips jerk again, harder, and Zimmermann moans around him, reaching blindly for Adam’s hand and placing it firmly on the back of Zimmermann’s head. 

  
“Shit,” Adam says, taking this for the invitation that it is, “oh shit.”

  
He fucks up harder into Zimmermann’s mouth, sharp snaps of his hips into tight, wet, heat. 

  
Zimmermann somehow has no gag reflex to speak of, even when Adam tightens his hand in Zimmermann’s hair and pulls tight in warning. 

  
His entire body tenses as his orgasm crashes into him, hips still pumping erratically into Zimmermann’s mouth. 

  
Zimmermann swallows around him, and then again, getting most, but not all of Adam’s come. Adam can feel the rest, mixing with Zimmermann's spit, sliding down the shaft of his cock and it shouldn’t be hot, not now that he’s come, but it somehow still is. 

  
Zimmermann lets Adams dick slip from his mouth with a gasp, breathing even more heavily than Adam. 

  
He crawls halfway up Adam’s body, hovering over him on his hands and knees. He leans forward, almost as though he’s aiming for a kiss, and Adam feels his eyes close in anticipation, but the kiss never comes. 

  
Adam opens his eyes to find his gaze locked in Zimmermann's own. 

  
Zimmermann holds his gaze as he shifts his weight onto one hand and reaches down to grab his own cock with the other. 

  
Adam can see Zimmermann start moving his hand out of the corner of his eye, but his eyes are stuck on Zimmermann’s face; his half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide and irises darkened to an almost navy blue, his cheeks flushed, teeth caught in his bottom lip. 

  
Adam gets so lost (so embarrassingly lost) in Zimmermann’s eyes that he’s surprised enough to flinch when Zimmermann convulses over him and he feels the hot, sudden splash of cum across his stomach and up on his chin. 

  
Zimmermann slowly eases himself to the side, all but collapsing onto the floor beside Adam, but somehow never breaking eye contact, as though this, too, has become some kind of competition. 

  
Adam swipes a thumb through the come on his chin and makes a show of sucking it off, licking around the tip of his thumb and making sure not to break eye contact even now. 

  
Zimmermann groans and closes his eyes, rolling onto his back on the floor and opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. 

  
Adam laughs, smug. 

  
He waits until Zimmermann looks at him again, eye contact much less charged now, before he speaks again. 

  
“Get out,” he says, grinning, predatory. 

  
“What?” Zimmermann asks, propping himself up on his elbows. 

  
“Were you expecting to cuddle?” Adam asks. 

  
A part of him does want to, but another, larger part, still sore from his loss and confused about what’s just happened, and which wants to just go to bed and go home in the morning and forget that anything in the last twenty-four hours even happened, just wants Zimmermann out so he can do just that. 

  
“Get out,” Adam repeats, making no move to help Zimmermann, even as Zimmermann shoots him a glare, stands, and leaves without a word. 

  
Adam gets ready for bed, tries desperately not to jerk off in the shower to images of Zimmermann coming on top of him, and slips into an exhausted sleep, with a probably vain hope that when he wakes up, he won’t even remember his evening.


	2. Chapter 2

“What the fuck was that?” 

Holster sighs as he steps into the locker room. Jack has been riding his ass all week, since he showed up to the team meet-and-greet at the beginning of the semester, really, but he’d thought maybe he’d avoided Jack’s wrath on this one occasion.

No such luck. 

He doesn’t respond, instead dropping down onto the bench and starting to methodically strip off his gear. 

He’s unlacing and pulling off his skates when Jack finally gives up waiting for an answer. 

Holster isn’t expecting the solid shove to his shoulder, but when he rights himself, he’s definitely ready to fight back. 

“I said what the fuck was that?” Jack says, moving to stand in front of Holster and loom over him. 

“What, no one else is allowed to score?” Holster asks, “Take the fucking cape off, Jack, you play on a team.”

“It’s not about that,” Jack insists, “You left Ransom on his own. What if you’d lost possession?”

“I didn’t,” Holster points out. 

“That’s not the point,” Jack says, “It wasn’t an approved play and you know it.”

“Rans was fine,” Holster insists, “he knows what he’s doing.”

“It’s just a shame you don’t,” Jack says. 

And Holster figures maybe that’ll be the end of it. 

Jack moves towards his own stall, and Holster barely suppresses an eye roll. 

“Figures you’d still be a fucking goon,” Jack mutters, quietly enough that Holster isn’t entirely sure he was meant to hear it. 

It’s the closest either of them have come to mentioning their fight from juniors, and Holster isn’t sure what that means. 

“Question is,” Holster says, before he can talk himself out of it, “Are you still a cockslut?”

“Why don't you come over here and find out?” Jack offers, turning to face Holster and stripping off his jersey, leaving his hair, still damp with sweat, messy in its wake. 

Holster strips off his own jersey, and lets his legs fall wide as he leans back into his stall. 

“Now why would I go and do a thing like that, when you could just as easily come over here?” Holster asks. 

He raises an eyebrow in challenge, holding Jack’s gaze, until Jack huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes. 

He stands, and strides confidently over to Holster, bracing a hand on the side of Holster’s stall and leaning over him. 

“Fuck you,” Jack says. 

“If you like,” Holster says, with a carefully casual shrug. 

Jack leans down, lightning quick, sliding a hand into Holster’s hair and slamming into him in a bruising kiss. 

It occurs to Holster, briefly, that they hadn’t kissed the last time they had done this, but his thoughts are interrupted as Jack pulls back and just as quickly backhands him across the face. 

“What the fuck?” Holster says, “Are you serious right now?”

Holster stands, putting his extra three inches to good use and shoving Jack away from him, fingers digging into the hard foam of Jack’s chest pads. 

Jack doesn’t back down, shoving Holster back just as hard. 

Holster shoves Jack harder, and Jack’s calves catch on the bench behind him, sending him backwards to the floor. 

Holster capitalizes on this, hopping over the bench himself and dropping to his knees to straddle Jack’s hips. 

He’s hit with a sense of déjà vu, Jack’s hips between his thighs, Jack’s chest underneath his own. 

Jack cranes up, grabbing Holster’s mouth in another kiss, biting hard as he gets Holster’s bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Fuck,” Holster says, rearing back and licking tentatively at his now-bleeding lip, “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

“Wow,” Jack says, rolling his eyes again, “You’re the first person who’s ever said that to me.”

“Wasn’t aiming for originality,” Holster says, “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

Jack shrugs underneath him. 

“You’re still going to let me fuck you, though,” he says, somehow managing to sound smug despite Holster’s bulk pressing him into the logo in the middle of the locker room floor. 

Part of Holster wants to get up and leave, just to prove Jack wrong, but part of Holster (the part that hasn’t had anything but his own hand since coming to Samwell; the part that remembers the mind-blowing orgasm Jack had torn out of him the last time they’d done this; the part that's maybe already a little bit in love with his new best friend but isn’t ready to fuck that up by bringing anything romantic or sexual into it) needs to keep this going. 

“Despite, not because it’s you,” Holster hedges. 

“I can work with that,” Jack says with a shrug. 

Holster sits up and starts tearing at the velcro keeping his chest pads in place. When he finally gets it off, he throws the whole piece haphazardly in the direction of his stall, and strips his tight undershirt off as smoothly as he can as the sweat-damp fabric clings to his skin. 

Jack gets his hands on Holster’s chest before Holster can even lower his arms, running his fingers through Holster’s chest hair almost absently, like maybe his mind is on something, or some _ one _ else. 

As long as there’s a dick in his ass in the next twenty minutes, Holster figures Jack can think about whoever the fuck he wants. 

Holster stands to get his pants off, aiming for expediency over seduction, and giving Jack a chance to start stripping off his own gear. 

Jack has filled out even more since the last time Holster saw him naked (well, half-naked) , despite the widely publicised overdose and subsequent drop off the face of the Earth. 

He’s clearly been working his ass off since he got to Samwell and Holster is almost proud of him. At least until he remembers that Jack just slapped him in the face. 

Jack strips fully in record time, stepping confidently into Holster’s space and running his hands up Holster’s back, pressing their chests together. 

He leans in, catching Holster in a kiss again, this one surprisingly gentle, at least compared to his previous attempts. 

He licks his tongue across Holster’s bottom lip, leaning into him and grabbing at Holster’s ass. 

Holster is just relaxing into the kiss when he feels Jack’s finger slip between his ass cheeks and brush, still dry, across his hole. 

“Shit,” Holster hisses, arching forward just as the fatal flaw in this plan becomes painfully obvious, “Wait, I’m not letting you dry fuck me.”

Jack rolls his eyes, stepping back and heading over towards Shitty’s stall. 

He rifles around in the detritus that collects at the bottom, tossing aside a few crusty socks and the packaging from a protein bar or two before coming away triumphant with a ziplock bag full of condoms and what looks like individual packages of lube. 

“Seriously?” Holster asks, “Why does he keep that in the locker room?”

Jack shrugs, stepping back up to Holster and pressing the bag into his chest. 

“Are you complaining?” Jack asks. 

Jack grabs Holster’s ass again with his other hand, and Holster decides that, no, he really, really isn’t. 

Jack kisses him again, quick and perfunctory, before he steps away again, rifling through the bag and grabbing two packets of lube. 

He tosses the bag onto the bench beside them, and grabs Holster by the hips, the foil packets crinkling against Holster’s skin. 

He walks Holster backwards towards the wall, fingers almost absently stroking against Holster’s skin, his face close enough that if Holster wanted to, he could definitely start reciprocating Jack’s kisses. 

He’s not sure whether he wants to. 

Before he can decide, one way or the other, they reach the wall, and Jack casually flips Holster around, as though Holster weighs nothing at all. 

And, okay, yeah. That’s definitely something Holster is into, apparently. 

He bites back a groan, and hears Jack snort unattractively from behind him. 

“You like that?” Jack asks, kneading at Holster’s ass again, strong fingers working over the muscle. 

“Fuck you,” Holster bites out around another groan. 

“Hmm,” Jack says, and fuck, he’s dropping to his knees behind Holster, oh shit, “Maybe next time.”

And before Holster can respond, Jack has his tongue halfway into Holster’s ass. 

“Fuck,” Holster gasps, sagging against the wall in front of him, “Oh fuck!”

Jack huff out a laugh, and it has no right to feel as good as it does, and yet. 

Holster’s knees sink further, trapping his dick between his stomach and the concrete wall of the locker room. 

He hisses; the wall is cold and uncomfortable and It’s borderline ruining this for him, but Jack seems to understand as he uses his thumbs to keep Holster’s ass cheeks apart while sliding his fingers around Holster’s hips and pulling them away from the wall, freeing his dick and dragging his chest further down. 

Jack’s hands are fucking huge and It’s absolutely unreasonable. 

Jack’s tongue works him over, even as Jack moves one of his hands forward and grabs Holster’s dick, squeezing tightly and dragging it painfully slowly towards the head. 

“Fuck,” Holster curses again, torn between bucking his hips into Jack’s hand and pushing back against Jack’s mouth. 

Jack laughs at him again, and then suddenly he’s gone. 

Holster feels himself actually  _ whimper _ , as Jack’s hands slide off his body, and Jack laughs harder. 

“Relax, Birkholtz,” Jack says, and there’s the unmistakable sound of a condom being torn open, “I said I’d fuck you and I’m going to fuck you. You’re such a needy bitch.”

He punctuates with a slick finger pressing straight into Holster’s ass, already worked loose from Jack’s tongue. 

Jack adds a second finger almost immediately, followed quickly by a third. 

Holster is starting to feel the burn at this point, and Jack seems to realize, putting his other hand, huge and warm, against Holster’s lower back and stroking softly as he works his fingers in and out, stretching Holster even further. 

For a while, the only sounds in the locker room (and fuck, they’re doing this in the  _ locker room _ ) are the wet sounds of Jack’s fingers, and the tiny gasps and bitten off groans that are all Holster will let himself do in response. 

Normally Holster is loud during sex, as loud as he is during every other moment of his life, but he’s not going to give Jack the satisfaction. 

The burn from Jack's fingers slowly gives way to a liquid warmth that spreads slowly through Holster’s body until he’s nearly vibrating with it, muscles tensing in anticipation of  _ more _ . 

He needs  _ more _ , and can’t help the way his hips push back onto Jack’s fingers as he chases that feeling of fullness. 

Jack stands suddenly, draping himself over Holster’s back, a warm, solid, almost comforting weight. 

“You good?” Jack asks quietly, whispered into the side of Holster’s neck. 

“Yeah,” Holster says, through gritted teeth, clamping down on the  _ please _ , and  _ fuck me _ , and  _ don’t stop _ that are threatening to spill from his lips. 

He tips his head to the side, opening up his neck for Jack and, when Jack doesn’t take that as the invitation it is, he grabs the back of Jack’s head, the angle awkward but manageable for his unreasonably long arms, and presses Jack’s face into the join of his neck and shoulder. 

Jack huffs out another laugh, warm breath puffing across Holster’s skin, and then Jack has his teeth sinking into the meat of Holster’s shoulder and It’s almost enough to distract from Jack’s dick pushing slowly into his ass. 

Holster shouts, loud and surprised, the mix of overwhelming pressure and white hot friction and the sharp, visceral sting of Jack’s teeth in his skin shorting out the part of his brain that doesn’t want Jack to know what this is doing to him. 

He can feel Jack’s smug smile where It’s pressed into the side of his neck, but can’t honestly bring himself to care as Jack’s hips start up a slow rhythm, pulling out almost to the tip before pushing back in. 

Holster can feel the restrained power in Jack’s thrusts and he wants it all. 

“Is that the best you can do?” Holster gasps out, because just asking for what he wants would be giving Jack too much. 

“You couldn’t handle my best,” Jack says. 

“Try me,” Holster spits back. 

Jack doesn’t respond, just suddenly picks up the pace, slamming into Holster’s ass with unrestrained power. 

Holster shouts again, bracing himself against the wall, forearms pressed into the concrete, biceps straining with the effort to not buckle under the force of Jack’s thrusts. 

Jack sets a punishing rhythm, his arm wrapped around Holster’s chest the only thing keeping Holster from slamming into the wall. 

Jack’s other hand slides across Holster’s stomach, fingers slipping through the divots of his abs and leaving slick trails of left-over lube in their wake. 

His touch is feather-light and Holster can feel his muscles contracting, shivering under Jack’s hand. 

It’s more than a little overwhelming, and suddenly he’s close-  _ so close _ . 

Jack’s hand dips lower, finally,  _ finally _ wrapping firmly around Holster’s dick and It’s all Holster can do to keep from coming then and there, but that would be embarrassing as fuck. 

He bites down on a whimper, thinks about anything but the devastating pleasure Jack is raining down on him. 

Then Jack changes the angle of his hips, and Holster comes suddenly, on an almost terrifying jolt of electricity as the head of Jack’s dick brushes against his prostate. 

“Fuck,” Jack hisses into Holster’s neck; the first sign in all of this that maybe Jack isn’t as unaffected as he’s trying to pretend. 

Holster shudders through his orgasm like a passenger in his own body, helpless in the face of what he’s feeling. 

Jack’s hand stutters across Holster’s chest as Holster shakes, muscles clenching over and over, and Jack’s movements lose their rhythm, his hips snapping forward in choppy movements. 

Even Jack’s breathing is slowly losing its regular rhythm, ghosting across Holster’s back in fits and starts, and then suddenly gusting out all at once as Jack’s hips slam into Holster’s ass and stay there. 

Holster can feel Jack trembling behind him, hear the soft whines Jack is making as he rides out his climax. 

Holster has a sudden flash of what Jack’s face looks like as he comes, and his own body shudders again, almost painful now that he’s fully wrung out. 

Jack sinks against him for a moment, gasping for breath, hands gently resting on Holster’s hips. 

From one breath to the next, Jack pulls himself together, pushing off of Holster’s back so quickly it could almost be mistaken for disgust, if not for the way Jack’s hands linger on Holster’s sides for a beat too long. 

Jack crosses the locker room and starts throwing on his clothes, and Holster can feel his eyes on him, even as he stays leaning against the wall, refusing to turn around for some reason that he can’t name. 

Jack pops up behind him after a moment, and Holster is almost hopeful that maybe Jack will give some sign that he’s feeling whatever it is Holster is feeling. 

But then, “Make sure you clean that up, eh?” is all Jack says, patting him lightly on the ass as he leaves, gear bag slung casually over his shoulder. 

And Holster is left, naked and alone in the locker room, staring at his own come as it drips slowly down the wall, and trying to figure out how, exactly, he feels about this entire thing. 

And whether or not he wants it to happen again… 


End file.
